


Hey moon, please forget to fall down

by Lilyssy



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Cuddling, Fluff and Angst, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Melancholy, Mereth Aderthad, Post-Rescue from Thangorodrim, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-12
Updated: 2016-10-12
Packaged: 2018-08-22 00:23:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,188
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8265917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lilyssy/pseuds/Lilyssy
Summary: The last night of Mereth Aderthad, a glimpse of Fingon and Maedhros. Aka the Angsty fluff monster. Without an actual real plot.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This story was born from an urge to write fluff (or to write anything at all actually), a night of insomnia spent listening to some 2000's pop rock music and reading to much Fingon/Maedhros story.  
> Surprisingly enough, this is my first fic about this pairing, I hope I got them right.  
> Warning for post-coital meaningless conversation mixed with wine, a Melancholic/angsty Fingon and the melodrama his beloved cousin and him are famous for.

Ever since he had seen Izil rise for the first time, Fingon had been drawn to his light. He could never forget that night, two decades prior, when Tilion had first steered his vessel through the sky. That silvery glow had been like a burst of light after so many long years spent in darkness, the distant stars not enough to replace the lost radiance of the Two Trees. Fingon remembered looking up at the heavens, blinking, as the last flower of Telperion illuminated Arda of its light. That vision had brought hope to those of their host who had survived the Helcaraxë, the hope to reach Ennor, the hope that all their losses had not been in vain.

The silver of the moonlight inevitably reminded Fingon of all those nights, what seemed like centuries ago, nights he had spent at Maedhros' side as they had pretended to travel the lands of Valinor to spend time together, far from the prying eyes of their families. Those memories were wreathed in the silvery light of Telperion, and Fingon kept them close to his heart. He remembered making love to Maedhros for the first time, the stars above and the nightingales the only witnesses of their bodily union...

Fingon snorted derisively at that turn of phrase. Stars and nightingales, really? Even a twenty year old Maglor writing a serenade for his first love interest wouldn't have dared to use such an image. That was drunken gibberish, certainly. The bottle of wine Maedhros and him had shared was still lying beside their bed... Well, it was supposedly Fingon's, but they had shared it almost every night since the beginning of that Reuniting Feast thing... Fingon got a grip of himself; that Reuniting Feast thing, as his mind called it, was maybe the most important event since they settled in Beleriand. Their future relations with their sindarin and nandorin neighbours depended on it. He should take it more seriously... Well, he would, when his brain would clear up the following morning.

The mere thought of the following day made his heart sink. They had spent nearly one month surrounded by the greenery, the trees and the pools of Eithel Irvin. They spent that month to get to know each other, their cultures and languages, trading stories, tales and songs, discussing the art of war and planning military strategy against their common enemy. The first days hadn't been easy; there were the cultural differences to begin with, even if some wished to forge new alliances, it was difficult for others to trust their new neighbours entirely. But the customary curiosity of the Noldor and the wisdom of the sindar had stricken up discussion between the two people. 

As for the internal tensions between the two houses of the Noldor, they hadn't been easy to appease. The sons of Fëanor seemed to take great pleasure in provoking their cousins, cousins who answered with witty replies. Things had escalated more than once, and the elders had to stop several fights from starting. Things eventually calmed down and they mostly avoided each other, for those who couldn't talk without jumping at each other's throat. Fingon obviously wasn't one of those given the time he had spent at Maedhros' side...

Thinking of his cousin, Fingon turned to the tent behind him, in which he had left a dozing Maedhros. Fingon usually stayed at his side,, enjoying his proximity, his warmth and comforting presence. Their moments together were too rare to waste time not being close to each other, but that night, Fingon felt the need to breath a bit of fresh air. He couldn't really explain it; it was their last night before leaving Eithel Irvin, he should have taken advantage of his cousin's presence. 

The next morning Maedhros would leave eastward with his brothers, to Himring where the construction of his fortress had recently been achieved. As for Fingon, he would return to his domain in Dor-Lómin as was his duty. A new long period of separation would start for them, their only exchanges the letters they would send to each other; those letters in which they had to be formal in case a too curious messenger decided to get a look at his prince's correspondance. They would try to convey love and comfort behind words about the state of their defenses against the enemy or the health of their relatives. The distance, Fingon mused, was especially difficult to live during the long winter nights, but they would endure. Because that was what their story had always been made off; Fingon knew from the start that loving Maedhros would come with a price. It was hard, of course, but it was their lives. And they had come close to loose each other to many times to complain about the moments of happyness they managed to steal along the years. 

Fingon smiled bitterly. In that light, his story with Maedhros seemed to be a sacrifice, something he had no choice in accomplishing, as if he was martyring himself to be with his cousin. If one of them should have been called martyr, it would probably been Maedhros; how many times Fingon had to convince his cousin that he didn't stay out of a dubious sense of duty? That he had no guilt to feel to want him at his side even after what happened, the kinslaying, the Helcaraxë? It had been a recurring topic of argument between the two of them, especially after the Oath and even more after Angband. Maedhros crisis of self-doubt had frustrated Fingon immensely, even if he was aware it was part of Maedhros' healing process.

But they worked on being happy again, forgetting for the few hours or days they could spend together, the drama that their existences were. It was easier said than done, they were both stubborn in their convictions, but they tried. The nights they had spent together during the past month were a proof of their progress. Only a few years earlier, Maedhros wouldn't have accepted that Fingon saw him completely naked. He refused to have his scars, his greatest shame and the memory of his darkest hours, thus revealed to his lover. Fingon could objectively understand his cousin's unease; showing those marks to another made him feel vulnerable. But he believed they were beyond that. If Maedhros couldn't let his mask of infallible strength go before him, who could he trust? His role as the leader of his house, the control he had to possess to keep his brothers quiet, the decisions he had to take as the ruler of Himring, not to mention his permanant struggle against his inner demons... That was too much for one person. And even if Fingon knew he didn't want to burden him with all those things, Maedhros had to learn to let go. And it hadn't been an easy path.

Fingon sighed. It wasn't the first time he reminisced on his story with Maedhros, it was indeed one of his main preoccupations. But maybe he should put it at the back of his mind for the rest of the night, their time together was coming to an end after all. He felt melancholic and thoughtful, strangely enough as he was usually the one putting Maedhros' mind off of such things. Not that Fingon didn't ponder on them often, but he had always been the more animated one of them, Maedhros more of a quiet and contemplative nature. When Fingon was more prompt to action, Maedhros observed the world around him, studying people and events to know how to act best. Not that Fingon wasn't thoughtful, but it was nonetheless true that he was at the origin of most of their impromptu departures to explore the wild alone to spend time together. He was often the one who took the initiative for sneaking off a reception to show Maedhros how much he had missed him... Not that his cousin complained, of course.

That thought made Fingon smile stupidly, and he eventually decided that he had enough thinking for tonight. He looked up at the moon for one last time, wishing absentmindedly that it would never fall down for that night to last as long as possible. A fool's hope, he knew, but one he had secretly formulated in his mind more than once. Fingon finally stood up to go back to the tent where a warm bed, and above all the warm embrace of Maedhros was waiting for him. 

When he lifted the side of the tent that served as a door, he found the interior of the little space lit with numerous candles. In the bed, he saw Maedhros, still lying among the crumpled sheets, his naked form exposed to Fingon's eyes. He took the time to admire the muscled arms, the long legs and the narrow but well sculpted torso of his lover with a hint of appreciation in his eyes. Maedhros' pale skin was marred with white scars, reminiscence of the time he spent in the enemy's clutches. The sight no longer unerved Fingon, who had seen the extent of the dammage Morgoth's tortures – or his mignon's but it held no importance at that point – had on his cousin's body and soul. When he had rescued Maedhros from the Thangorodrim, he still had marks of both recent and old ill-treatments on his hröa. In comparison, the present scars were nothing. But still remained, in Fingon's heart, a burning anger towards their enemy that would never disappear completely. He tried not to show it when he was at his partner's side; Maedhros didn't take well others manifesting resentment, disgust or pity for his injuries, even from Fingon. A flicker of that anger passed at the forefront of his mind, but Fingon dismissed it quickly before Maedhros noticed something. 

Instead, he focused on the marks his mouth had left at Maedhros throat, his fingers on his hipbones or the way his brown red hair was ruffled from their earlier lovemaking and the langorous smile on his lips... Yes, that vision was much better.

In the bed, Maedhros had felt Fingon returning but felt too lazy to move in any way. He had seen,through his half-closed eyes the way his lover had admired him, almost felt the touch of his eyes on his skin. He thought he saw a glint of anger in those beloved blue eyes, but when he had looked more closely, he had only seen approbation and a ounce of smugness. Maedhros smiled inwardly; he could totally imagine what was going through Fingon's mind, the self satisfaction of one who knew he had contented his partner... Typical Fingon, that was.

But to be honest, Maedhros couldn't complain. He felt good, better than he had in a long time. He always felt relaxed when Fingon was around, and that night was no exception. His lover had expressed the wish to breath a bit of fresh air, and Maedhros had seen no objection to it until Fingon didn't ask him to get out of bed. He felt so fine in that bed, his entire body exhausted from making love, some parts of it a bit sore but in a satisfactory and pleasent kind of way. 

Maedhros got out of his reveries when he felt Fingon laying back beside him. He looked up at him and responded eagerly when Fingon put him into a clinging kiss. He rapped his left arms around Fingon's neck, running his fingers into his unbraided dark hair as Fingon's hands carressed his sides. He could still taste the spicy flavour of the wine they had shared earlier, mingling with the natural taste of Fingon.

Fingon eventually broke the contact to contemplate Maedhros' lips, bruised from their kisses.

"You are admiring your work, are you not?" he asked, raising an inquisitive eyebrow.

"I totally am ," Fingon answered with a stupid grin. "I have to say that you are very beautiful tonight, Maitimo." The name in quenya rolled on his tongue in a seductive way. Maedhros shivered inwardly, Fingon was really the only one who could call him by his mother name without him feeling uneasy. Beautiful was a word he thought would never apply to him again after Angband. It was different coming from Fingon, though.

"A debauched mess, that is all I am," he retorted, running his hand through his red hair self consciously. "But it is entirely your fault."

"I take full responsability for that as well," Fingon approved before dropping a kiss to Maedhros' shoulder.

Maedhros didn't reply but pulled Fingon against his chest, feeling his breath, and soon his lips, against his throat. His fëa was content to be close to Fingon's, their bond pulsing gently at the back of his mind. Maedhros could also feel his body responding to Fingon's touch, even if another part of him protested at the stir of desire their proximity provoked in him. He was also aware that it was their last night... 

So be it, Maedhros thought as Fingon pushed him back on the matress. It would be worthit in the end. It always was.

**Author's Note:**

> The title comes from 'Northern Downpour' by Panic! At The Disco. The 2000's music I mentioned at the beginning...


End file.
